


Parts of an Entirety

by Eat-Prellies (Olivia_Avery)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1967, A collection of stories based on the bits of stories and quotes the boys and friends have given us, Angst, Hamburg, LSD, M/M, My goal is to make this as realistic as possible, Paris - Freeform, Pining, Post-Beatles, Pre-Beatles, on tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivia_Avery/pseuds/Eat-Prellies
Summary: "This is the first time," says John, "That we’ve done this together."—A collection of vignettes, with all intentions of being as close to reality as possible.





	1. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide

**Author's Note:**

> “And we looked into each other’s eyes, the eye contact thing we used to do, which is fairly mind-boggling. You dissolve into each other... And it was amazing. You’re looking into each other’s eyes and you would want to look away, but you wouldn’t, and you could see yourself in the other person... There’s something disturbing about it. You ask yourself, 'How do you come back from it? How do you then lead a normal life after that?’ And the answer is, you don’t. After that you’ve got to get trepanned or you’ve got to meditate for the rest of your life. You’ve got to make a decision which way you’re going to go.“ — Paul McCartney
> 
> —
> 
> *A note before we begin: this first chapter may seem a bit 'dreamy.' Should this not be your cup of tea, please know that a more grounded approach to writing will be taking over in future chapters.*

The roof could be tin; it sounds like it, at least. With the pitter-patter of rain against the house, ringing like hollow notes. Paul could melt into it — wants to. Notes of music. The rain could be notes of music. It rises in tone like a scale. C, D, E, F...

It’s late. No, it’s — _probably_ — late. He’s got no idea of the time — can’t read the clock and really comprehend it. John’s somewhere — where? It’s a frightening thought, suddenly. The house is so huge. Paul’s walked through it enough times to know all the rooms and the nooks and the crannies— it’s his _own_ for christsakes, no matter how foreign it feels now.

But, he can’t even read a clock. He can’t even remember if the roof is made of tin or wood or plaster. Or the stars, or the molecules — are there molecules there, too? — of the sky, the planets. Christ. Where the fuck is John? Lost. Fuck, probably lost somewhere. It’s too big, the house.

Paul stands and it’s like a rush of colors whirl around him. Like a tapestry spun around and around in front of his eyes. The vibrancy of the carpet kicks up its color onto the walls. The hues of record jackets sputter like splashed paint. He half trips — barely catches himself from falling when his ankle rolls. He catches a breath. Stands upright. Tries to focus on any non-moving thing in the room.

There’s a bit of fear rising in him; he feels the tightness work its way from his stomach to his throat. It climbs like a cold chill. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck.

"Johnny?"

"Paul, love. Here."

The rain on the pseudo-tin roof stills. John’s on the floor, his back against the carpet, arms and legs spread out like the points on a star. He’s so awash in color. So, so golden looking beneath the lamp lights. The red on his cheeks is blazing. Bright, bright, and real pretty.

"Macca."

"I’m here."

"But be _here_ , you git," says John. And Christ, his voice is melodic and when he speaks, his words touch the very front of his palette, buzz through his nose, before hitting the air. And it’s pretty. It’s marvelous.

"Paul." John sits up. He grabs onto Paul’s wrist — an easy mark when they exist only an arm’s distance away from each other.

"Okay," and Paul folds, bending toward the carpet. He lands on his knees first before he wobbles. And the world isn’t spinning, he’s just _tired_. Standing. Sitting. Talking. It’s a lot. He’s heavy — got this invisible weight bearing down on his clavical and spine.

He leans forward. Spilling, like water, into John’s lap. The crown of his head presses into John’s stomach. Paul’s face, turned, nuzzles into John’s right thigh. He feels like a puddle, languid and flat on his stomach. And John’s so soft and comfortable and warm. And when John places a weighty hand on Paul’s mid-back, Paul damn-well almost groans. He is no puddle, but heavy ocean water, deep, deep below the land.

John’s gone in his own world. His hand rubs mindlessly, lost in the fabric of Paul’s shirt. It’s only when Paul begins humming — some swinging mixture of sharp-sounding notes — does John’s dreaming shift.

"Paulie," begins John. "Let’s sit up."

Paul sloshes upward — feeling like a heavy, drenched quilt.

"Sit on your arse, son," says John, pulling at Paul’s limbs. "Here, straighten out. Just — Yeah. Very good. Bend your knees... All good. Very good."

"I need something," says Paul.

John raises a brow. "Oh?"

"Air," says Paul.

"Air’s good," says John.

"D’you want to go to the garden?"

Paul knows immediately that John’s lips are forming "no." That, behind his front teeth, his tongue is touching the roof of his mouth, his lips are ready to purse. " _Nnnn-oooo_ …"

But, instead, John stands. His eyes are unfocussed. He reaches down a hand. Paul takes it.

The flowers are like plastic. Shiny, like new toys. Fake. They all must be fake, by how perfect the stems and unbudded roses, and boxwood leaves look. All shiny in the poor garden lighting.

John’s eyes are to the stars, his hands in his pockets. Paul wanders for a few steps, but returns all the more quickly. He takes in deep breaths — amazes at how each cold intake of air feels like wet vapor in his lungs.

Everything is moving. There’s that weight again on his shoulders. And, he looks at John.

John.

"This is the first time," says John, noticing Paul’s attention, "That we’ve done this together. Ta."

"Yeah," says Paul. “Sure thing.”

"We’ve done a lot of things together."

"Yeah, you know, I…" his mind hitches. Paul could list every drug they’ve ever taken side-by-side. Every swig of alcohol shared. Some, but, well, not _every_ , bird they’ve ever had. Beds split between the two of them. Clothing borrowed. What else? Toothbrushes. Combs. Records.

What was his life before John Lennon? He couldn’t remember. There’s the face of his mother, some images of his brother, his father packing away old clothes into boxes. But when it started… when it _really_ started, it began with John.

John.

"Paul."

The sky is endless. White dots against dark, dark blue. Nights take up half of a lifetime, but it’s as if he’s finally seen it — really seen it. Paul points to the big dipper.

"Can you tell," he says to John, "That the other stars look like they’re pouring it?"

"Paul."

It’s too dark to really see John’s expression. He’s shadowed; eyes barely a shine in the dim lighting. "Want to go inside?"

Paul nods. He’s tired in his bones. But, his head...

"Yeah."

John is warm. Warm, from his palms. Warm, from his eyes. They’re not so dark, his eyes or his hair.

Somehow, someway, they’re back to their spot. Back to the floor. Back to their bent knees and crossed ankles. And somewhere in the mess of things, one of them — Paul — had scooted closer. Closer, to the point where their kneecaps were pressed against the other’s.

"This is—" starts John.

"Yeah," says Paul.

John laughs. A hot breath of air. His mouth curves into a smile. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."

They’re close. Both bent at the spine. Staring.

Staring.

And there’s something. Some electric heat in Paul that thrashes in his chest.

Lennon and McCartney. Lennon and McCartney.

Two syllables and three syllables. Two syllables and three syllables.

There’s something in John that makes Paul’s lips want to move. Something in him that wants to wail because — fuck — those eyes are the most recognizable eyes within Paul’s lifetime. John’s.

John.

Another centimeter closer. His eyes boring into his. Are they the same? Same soul, head, mind, eyes, body, legacy?

Legacy. Lennon and McCartney. Lennon and—

"Paul."

It’s a good voice. It’s his voice. No, not _his_ voice — not Paul’s — but _John’s_ … Doesn’t that make it his? Isn’t John’s voice the same as his, almost?

John is so close. His breath is so warm; it smells peppery, like childhood.

"Paul."

"John."

John. It’s the easiest word to say. It’s the most familiar word to say. Daily. Hourly. By the minute. The second. By every thought. Fuck. Christ. It feels good rolling off his tongue.

"John." Familiar. Good. Safe.

They’re the same aren’t they? The songs, the music, the lyrics. The backstories, the memories, the loves, and the wants, and the needs, and the —

Paul’s leans closer.

John’s beautiful. Christ, he’s beautiful. Christ. If there is no Lennon, is there a McCartney? Years, months, days, hours, events, and memories, and thoughts, and abilities, and passions, and words, and melodies all sown and harvested together — if there isn’t a Lennon, can there be a McCartney? Can there be anything without him?

 _Should_ there be anything without him?

"I’m…" begins Paul. They’re so close. It’s not just knees touching, anymore.

John nods. He understands. He sees it, maybe with same irises Paul possesses.

Lennon and McCartney. Lennon and McCart--

Who leans in first is never distinguished. John, maybe; them both, probably. Paul doesn’t register it at first. The soft warmth on his lips. The brushing of stubble. It’s so natural. So normal. It’s another part of him — the most important part of him? — melting back into its core.

And it feels good. It feels good. It feels good. John kissing him, or Paul kissing John. It’s the same thing. Paul groans, becuase it just feels _good_. As it should be, really. As it always should have been. Because it’s John.

The clock ticks. The colors swirl. Tripping isn’t so odd anymore. Finally it feels natural and complete. Paul’s fingers are wrapped up in John’s hair. John’s lips are moving; his tongue darts out to wedge between Paul’s lips, to press against his tongue.

And Paul makes a noise — a heavy moan. He’s water again, warm water. Viscous and drooling.

John’s hands are touching his skin.

"Paul."

And Paul leans back, because he’s at last one with it. Finally, truly, at last reveling that this is what their entire lives had been built up to. To this moment of the two of them sprawled on the tepid floor, on some mistake of a night, on a damn LSD trip.

And John moans. And it’s enough to get any blood in Paul’s brain rushing downward. Then, every little movement or brush against the space between his hips is the best thing he’s ever felt.

"This is--" starts John.

And, "Yeah," laughs Paul.

John’s lying on top of him and this is ridiculous; utterly ridiculous. But there’s a movement, suddenly; John’s repositioning, maybe, that sends a prickling shock through Paul’s vertebrae.

"Can you…" starts Paul, becuase it’s all they can do. Half-words and half-sentences, because it’s a waste to fill air when the other already knows.

John shifts his hips. Paul watches his face. The briefest touch of John’s lashes against the curve of his cheeks as he looks down and —

Paul groans. His hips buck upwards. And it could be enough. It could be enough, really. But—

Paul’s arms are around John’s shoulders and torso. They’re chest to chest. Something wild in their lips, but every movement feels like a mimic of the other. They’re rutting; moving. And god, god, it’s the best sort of feeling Paul has had, this. Complete. One. Finally.

Lennon and McCartney.

Lennon and McCartney.

It’s John who scrambles to remove his belt. It’s John whom has hands still enough to throw off every inch of clothing they both wear. And of course John would do that, because John knew. Knew, that looking into each other’s eyes wasn’t enough. That clothes were just barriers. And it’s so lovely to feel him, all of him, everything of him, utterly unabashed or hidden. Paul’s hands drag up and down, from the tip of John’s head to as far as Paul could reach. John moans against him.

It’s good, thinks Paul, to find something more important than yourself. It’s good, thinks Paul, to find someone you love and venerate and need and would die without. Is that not life’s purpose? Is that not—

"John," Paul’s breath hitches. There’s spit in John’s hand, and his hand’s around Paul’s cock.

"Hush, hush," breathes John. On a later day’s sober inspection, he’s no good at it. He’s awkward in rhythm; his grip is all off. But every pump of the wrist leaves Paul’s back arching. Every nerve in his fingers and toes sparkling like fireworks. It’s like a match lit beneath this spine. Because it’s John’s hand. It’s John’s.

"John, love," gasps Paul, an arm is slung over his eyes. He can’t spill yet. Not yet. "C’mere. C’mere."

When John’s hand stills, Paul flips them both onto their sides. The thigh from one between the other’s legs. And Paul moves. His hips jerk. His head swims. Mouth to mouth with John, and there’s nothing but a buzzing in his head and the thoughts:

John.

Fuck.

It’s enough when he feels John crumble in his grip; his body spasms, short, sweet. The hitch in John’s voice when he comes with an “Oh.” And then there’s a warmth spurting against the top of Paul’s thighs. And Paul thinks,

Yes.

Yes.

There’s not much more until Paul’s past the edge; the curl in his stomach unknots. Every bit of his head is spinning and high. There isn’t enough. He needs more. He wants more.

He comes gripping John; his face against John’s sweaty forehead, Paul’s nose buried in auburn hair. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, this orgasm. It’s the burst of horns and trumpets and John’s voice between his ears, and a high better than any drug...

And he loves him. Paul loves him. Every bit of warmth is creeping into Paul’s skull. His face is alight. His heartbeat rapid. He loves John. He needs John. He would die without John.

Paul’s face is wet and warm. Had he meant to cry?

Side by side, still, John watches him; the same mistyness there in his eyes.

Of course they had felt the same thing. Of course.

"I—" tries Paul.

"It’s alright."

It’s alright, thinks Paul 

Paul’s in the shower when his head stops buzzing. John’s head hovers hear the sink, a toothbrush against his teeth, when Paul says, "We’re different now, aren’t we? ... Us. After this."

John spits. Turns on the tap to wash it down. "Think so," says John.

Paul hums low it his throat. It’s exhilarating. It’s frightening. He’s lost something of himself and replaced it with John. Or, its always been that way, and he’s now only privy to it.

Paul rubs soap between his thighs. He can sense John, just outside the shower curtain. John is the steam crowding the bathroom. Part of everything. Part of Paul. There is no McCartney without Lennon. They’ve shared the same soul, divided up the different parts of it to create seperate personalities, but they are the same.

Lennon and McCartney.

Lennon and McCartney.

There is no McCartney without—

"Paul."

John’s face peeks around the shower’s divide. "You okay, son?" He watches Paul’s face. "You look spooked."

Is he?

"Am I?"

A frown flickers on John’s face. His brows knit together. "I don’t know. Are you?"

"I’m feeling a lot of ways."

John nods.

"We can’t..." struggles Paul, "Go back from this now, you know. Not the—" and he waves a hand flippantly.

John nods. "Not the poor excuse of fucking on the carpet."

"Right. But, the thoughts and, eh, feelings and revelations and all. Can’t go back from that."

John keeps nodding. He pulls the curtain back to where it was. Paul turns off the water. John hands him a towel from over the curtain rod. "Ta."

By the time Paul is dressed and out of the steaming room, John’s settled on a chair in the living room, looking distant.

And he’s grand. He looks like a king. Some god of the domain — the very domain being Paul’s own house.

And the thought rattles Paul. Everything is John Lennon’s. Paul’s own identity isn’t even his own anymore.

And it begins to frighten him.

He wants, suddenly and very desperately, to run.

"I’m going to the garden," says Paul.

John only nods, off in his own thoughts and sights.

The garden helps nothing. Paul wanders — two steps, three steps, four — before he feels utterly exhausted at the effort. Even the chill seems to weaken him.

His mind is in John; his brain a record player repeating. He can’t relax. John’s in there. King of everything.

He’s so tired, Paul. He’s found himself and then lost himself in the same night.

Bed, he decides. He’s just going to go to bed.

“Go to bed?” says John in disbelief. “You won’t sleep!”

“I know that,” sighs Paul. “I know that. I’ve still got to go to bed.”

John studies his face and Paul realizes — looking into John’s eyes again — that it’s all too easy to get drawn in and lost again.

He takes a step back. His vision feels like it’s bouncing. “Alright,” says Paul.

“Alright,” says John. Then: “Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“It was good tonight.”

“Yeah, Johnny.”

“Real good.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s maybe,” John relaxes his chin into his open palm. “Yeah, maybe my best. Trip. Or, day. Or, best thing.”

Something in Paul’s stomach drops. “That’s ever happened?”

“Don’t get queer,” chides John. “But, Yeah, maybe. Fucking who knows.”

That’s a “yes,” Paul knows. “Right.”

John watches him for a bit longer, eyes moving all over Paul’s face. He’s waiting, Paul knows. For something. A confirmation. Anything.

“I’ve gotta go to bed, Johnny.”

“Yeah, fine.” John folds his legs up onto the seat with him. “Go on then.”

Paul doesn’t sleep. His mind is on John. Even Mal’s arrival some hours later (“You alright there, Paul? I got a worried sense about it all.”) doesn’t break the cycle.

Lennon and McCartney.

Lennon and McCartney.

The sun rises to Paul’s thoughts of: _John, John, John._


	2. A Memory: 1963

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I kept spoiling the image by beating up Bob Wooler at the 21st— The first national paper press we got was the back page of the Mirror, with me beating up Bob Wooler at Paul’s 21st. That was the first "Lennon Hits Out" story [...] And that was the first national stuff we got. And that was terrible. And I was so bad the next day, they had a BBC appointment, and they all went down the train, and I wouldn’t come. [...] I remember it, vaguely. I was out of me mind with drink – when you get down to the point where you drink all the empty glasses, that drunk. And he was saying, ‘Well, come on, John, tell us,’ something like that, ‘Tell me about you and Brian, we all know,’ like that. And obviously, I must have been un– uh, f– frightened of the fag in me to get so angry at that. You know, when you’re twenty-one, you want to be a man, and all that. And for the first time I thought, ‘I could kill this guy.’ I just saw it, like on a screen, that if I hit him once more, I – that’s gonna be it." - John Lennon
> 
> A warning: the language in this chapter will be nasty — you’ll read through a handful of painful and offensive slang. For the sake of maintaining the “feeling of the times” and John and Paul’s personalities during this time, I have chosen to retain this language. Please know I personally do not standby the use of such language.

Paul says nothing. He’s cold and rigid; arms folded against his chest, legs straight as pipes in front of his chair, crossed at the ankle. He doesn’t bother to peer at John. The sight of the man annoys him. Instead, he stares toward the perpendicular wall, his brows arched, mouth a thin line, eyes half-lidded and bored in expression. 

He’s boiling. Utterly boiling.

John sighs. His drooping head is in his open hands. He leans his elbows against the kitchen table. "Listen," he says, "If you’ve come here to nag, then nag. I sent a telegram. Apologized to the git. Do I feel horrible?" John lifts his head. Stares at Paul’s still-stoic figure. "‘Course I do. Now I do. And with it in the paper and all..."

Paul doesn’t bother a glance. 

"Come on, Macca. What do you expect? I was out me mind with every drink there was—" 

"Our first time in a big paper, John," says Paul, his expression unchanged. "And it’s you breaking Bob Wooler’s face. ‘Lennon Hits Out.’ Bloody fantastic, John. Glad you set that standard for our image."

"Well, fuck—"

"Couldn’t even get your fucking arse on a train. If you didn’t want to see him because you wanted to be a coward — fine. But you could’ve gotten your fucking self to the BBC appointment."

John snorts. "Fuck off, Macca. You want me crawling on me stomach? What would I say, even? ‘Awful sorry to the lot of you. ‘Specially you, Bob. I’m one of those bad lads in sheep’s clothing. Don’t mean anything by it. Won’t happen again.’"

"I don’t give a bloody toss what you would have said," says Paul, his posture at last turned toward John, expression finally a snarl, "You go for the fucking sake of it. You beat a friend half-dead because you’re tough and troublesome, but here you are. Brilliant, John. Look at you: too coward to even walk out the house. Sure impressive you are. Real tough guy.” 

John narrows his brows. "Go ahead, Paul," he says sarcastically, "Tell us how you really feel."

"Obvious now you’re not a fag, yeah?" continues Paul, undaunted. "Proved that to Bob alright. Bet you convinced him. Tough guy Lennon doesn’t take it up the arse—"

John slaps the table. Paul doesn’t jump; he had been waiting to get a rise out of John. And here it was, expected and delivered.

"Go fuck yourself, McCartney."

Paul raises a single brow. There’s a smile on his lips. "Bet you’ll do that for me too, yeah?"

John’s expression goes slack; the tenseness in his forehead vanishes. His eyes widen. He’s taken aback and hurt, clearly. Paul can tell. And it feels good, this little revenge; the little sneer of a joke Paul knows he can get away with.

After a moment’s beat, John stands. His hands are not fisted. His movement is not suddenly. The violence was already long exorcised out of him.

Instead, he drags his kitchen chair closer to the other end of the table. Placing it directly in front of Paul, he sits, the gap between his legs an arch over Paul’s crossed ankles. 

Paul eyes him.

"I ruined your birthday," says John pointedly. "Is that why you’re being such a cunt?" 

"You’ve potentially ruined our reputation. That’s why. I don’t give a toss about it being my birthday."

There’s a smile, suddenly, cracking through Paul. The utter stupidity of it all finally coming to light. "And at me own auntie’s house too."

"I beat a man," confirms John, "At Auntie Gin’s house," he allows a smile to pull at his lips, "At Paul McCartney’s 21st birthday party." 

"For calling you queer."

"Right, for calling me queer. Thank you, Paul dear."

"I won’t let you forget it."

"Fantastic.” 

"Where’s my beating? I’ve called you the same now too, right?" 

John pauses. The minor smile he had dissipating. Paul’s vanishes right with it.

"Right," says John. "But you understand it, maybe." 

"You and Brian?"

"Right." 

Paul shifts in his seat. He slouches further in the chair, brings his arms up above his head, threads his fingers, and leans his head back into his palms. "You never told me," says Paul. "What happened. Something happened, didn’t it?" 

"I’m not a fag." 

"I know you’re not a fag. Just like I’m not a fag. You don’t go about looking for lads to screw, or have that little coy accent or whatever they’ve got. I get you’re not a fag."

John’s eyes go about the walls. He’s searching in memories, Paul figures. Thinking of Stu, maybe. Brian. Digging through moments to see what counted as queer and what didn’t.

Paul swallows. Does John... think of him at all? 

John lowers his voice. "Yeah, in Spain. I don’t know why. But. Right. Yeah, something happened, maybe." He lets out a sigh. "It was just... a great, good time. Lots of drink. Lots of this and here and that. And warm, you know? Something nice about it. It’s why I wanted us to head there."

Paul nods, he watches John intently, a fingernail now between his teeth. "Yeah, I’m glad we stayed in Paris, though."

A little flutter at the thought of Paris rises in Paul’s gut. But he, unlike John, can ignore that sort of thing. Can put any odd thought or experience in a little, mental box and stash it far away. 

John nods. He rubs a hand across his face. "I got in the bathtub with him. He had been nagging me. All touchy and needy, you know? And sure, it had been in the back of me mind..."

He glances at Paul. There’s an anxiety there, in both of them. Paul nods, a firm: continue. 

"And," says John. He clears his throat. "Right, I got in the tub. I figured, it’s almost the last night of the trip. When else or where else would I..." He searches for words. "Fuck. I don’t fucking know. When else would I have this opportunity in front of me? Brian is such a fucking maniac over image, I was sure he’d keep his yap shut."

"What’d you do, John?" 

"I’m not queer, Paul."

"I know you’re not queer, John. I get that. I know." 

"I don’t want anybody to think..."

"Nobody will. There’ll be teasing, sure, but nobody will. I’ll make sure of it, right? No one can call John Lennon queer and mean it. What happened."

There’s warmth in John’s face; it makes his face glow pink. His legs bounce beside Paul’s. Another deep sigh.

"He tossed me off. We took a bath, and he tossed me off after."

Paul nods. He’s careful that his expression remains static. "That’s alright," he says. "We’ve even done that before, haven’t we? Just being stupid. That’s all." 

A line appears between John’s brows. He grimaces. Drags a hand against the back of his own neck. "I don’t know," says John. "But he’s, you know, an actual... It’s not just... Tossing off. Not just something between mates, as you said. Right? There’s some meaning to it."

"It’s just..." Paul pauses for a thought. "It’s just Brian, right? Queer or not, it’s just Brian. And it meant nothing to you. One-off thing. Da, da, done, yeah? You’re not shopping for lads in the shipyards—" 

"He tried putting his cock in my arse, Paul. What more do you need? How much more queer can it get?"

"Oh."

Whatever attempt Paul had at a neutral expression dies.

There’s a definite quietness in the kitchen, which seems to permeate through all of the suburban neighborhood. Lazy, afternoon sunlight comes in through the windows. The green of the garden reflecting in its light. Cynthia and Julian aren’t back yet, Paul surmises. She had been sick of John, she said before leaving. "I’m at my wits end, Paul," she had whispered in the doorframe.

So he and John sit, alone, in a big, quiet house. The sink faucet dripping. The wind pushing tree branches against the windows — little tap-tap-taps as it knocks against glass.

_Drip, drip, drip, tap, tap, tap._ The clock ticks alongside.

It takes Paul a long moment to say: "You said ‘tried.’" 

"Yeah."

"So you didn’t."

"What the fuck does it matter? I tried." 

"Why?" 

"Why what?"

"Why didn’t you... continue it?"

"Well fuck, Paul," John snarls. "Why don’t you give an attempt to shove a bloody cock up your arsehole? You tried that yet, huh? No, not a sodder like the rest of us? It bloody hurts. That’s why, Paul. It bloody hurt."

"Ah," mutters Paul. "Yeah, that... makes sense. Sure."

"Fuck it," John huffs and stands, kicking his chair out from behind him. It skids against the kitchen floor. "There you are, then. You got the whole damn story. I’m a damn poofer, then."

"Johnny—"

John’s already out of the kitchen when he yells, "Go fucking home." 

It’s quiet again, save for the creak of John’s weight shifting onto the sofa.

The faucet continues dripping. The little breeze keeps blowing. The clock ticks. 

Paul sighs. He stands and rattles about in the kitchen — pulling from the cupboards two mugs, a pack of tea, sugar... a kettle. He lights the stove and sets to work. Chewing at his nails in a sour mood as he waits for the water to boil.

And then, like some little wife, he heads into the den, a cup of black tea in each hand.

John, as expected, is still laying on the sofa. His back facing Paul, his face shoved against the sofa’s cushions.

"John," says Paul.

No answer.

"John."

"Fuck off," comes the muffled response.

Carefully, Paul lifts a leg and shoves the heel of his socked foot against John’s left shoulder blade. "Get up. I made us tea." 

John’s got red eyes and a red nose when he peeks over his shoulder.

_Softie_ , thinks Paul. "C’mon, then." 

John sits up. Rubs his eyes with a heavy sigh. Paul sets his tea on the short table in front of the settee and settles upon a nearby armchair.

"What the hell have a done?" John whimpers into his hands. "I almost killed Bob Woolen... almost got me arse fucked by Brian..."

"You’ve been busy." Paul busies himself with his tea, taking in a bitter sip despite its scalding temperature.

"I’ve ruined your opinion of me, haven’t I?"

"Don’t be daft."

"I’m so fucking embarrassed, Paul. I’m so fucking embarrassed."

"About roughing up Bob?"

"No, I..." and John pauses. He peels his face from his hands. "I regret that, yeah. But, everything else I said... ‘Bout Brian."

"Ah," shrugs Paul. "I don’t care."

"Yer lying. You’ll treat me differently now. I know it. An arm’s distance and all that."

Paul narrows his brows. "Why?" he asks, despite knowing. 

John laughs. It’s sharp. Painful. "Cause you’ll figure me a fag! Anything and everything I do now. I hate it." 

"For fuck’s sake," sighs Paul. He rubs a palm against his forehead, utterly tired of the circular conversation. "I’m not bloody Freud, right? I’m not looking into every fucking thing you’ve done to analyze you as this or that. You’re not a fag. I don’t give a toss what you get into."

"Just don’t be uncomfortable with me."

It’s said so softly. So sad and so gently. And John’s got those big, brown eyes that are all red around the edges. Looking all tearful and broken and just damn afraid. 

"That’s what..." says John, and his voice cracks, just a smidge, "Thats what really gets to me. That you’d just hate the sight of me, and I’d lose you."

Paul sighs and sets down his tea. He’s annoying at times, John. Daft. Sensitive and needy. A true product of his abandonment in childhood. But, well...

John’s got that same, pathetic expression when Paul goes to stand in front of him. Looking so lost and hurt as his peers up at Paul from his place on the settee.

He doesn’t do much when Paul leans over. Doesn’t jerk back, or move or at all when Paul roughly grabs the edges of his face and pulls him forward into an ungraceful kiss.

It’s no more than a peck. More of a shoving together of lips just for show. But by the half second later, when Paul lets go and lets John fall back into the couch, John’s finally looking more amused than pathetic.

"That," says Paul of the kiss, "We did in Paris, right?" Paul shrugs. Looks every bit naunchalant as he goes back to his armchair and tea. "You’re no more queer now than you were then. Stop being a fucking nag, Lennon."

John nods. He’s perked up a bit. Shoulders a little more straight. Expression finally at ease. "Yeah," he says. His voice is breathy-sounding. Relieved. "Guess I’m still just as queer as you."

Paul grins. He folds his legs up onto the chair. "Yeah," he says, "Jane’s actually a Jim, you know."

"Cynthia’s actually Brian in a wig." John goes for his cup of tea. "You joining Brian and I and Julian-Brian Jr. for supper then?"

Paul nods. He figures he’ll stay for a drink afterwards too. Maybe even until the early morning, going over jokes and lyrics and guitar licks. "How sweet to invite me to your big, queer dinner."

John winks. "Wouldn’t be one without you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sure if there was anything to tell you [about John and Brian’s trip to Spain], it would have been Paul John would have told. Forget what happened later — at the time they were closer than any two men I’ve ever known.” — Alistair Taylor
> 
> There’s a certain formula I’ll be employing in this work. For now, I’m wanting to have all odd-numbered chapters be linear and following, in order, what happened since the first LSD trip. Whereas even-numbered chapters will be sporadic but important past events. Hopefully, it should not be confusing. But please let me know if this approach is a bit too odd. 
> 
> Most importantly, however, thank you a million times over for the kudos and the comments. It gives me the will to keep writing and I mean it, truly, that it changes my entire day for the better when I receive someone’s thoughts on what I’m writing!
> 
> See you next chapter, I hope!
> 
> If you would like to follow my Beatles-centered Tumblr, you can find me by the username Eat-Prellies ( https://eat-prellies.tumblr.com/ ).


	3. Moments in Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We all said ‘Now look into this camera and really say ‘I love you!’ Really try and feel love; really give love through this! It’ll come out; it’ll show; it’s an attitude.” - Paul McCartney, on the Sgt. Pepper photoshoot

__

_30 March 1967_

They stand close. Ornate in their garish, regalia costumes. Wedged in the middle of George and Ringo, shoulder to shoulder. 

“I’ll take another one,” says Michael. He squints through his camera. “Boys. Ready?”

They -- the four of them -- in front of a yellow backdrop. Ringo clears his throat. George removes his burnt-orange cap. 

“Alright,” says Michael. “What’s the mantra? Think ‘love.’ Think ‘love.’ Here we go.” 

It’s without thought, or premonition.

They look to each other. 

_24 May 1967_

It’s not the quip Paul said that’s important. It’s John’s reaction.

Because his heart speeds up when John laughs into his shoulder — just near the crook of his neck— and Paul’s got that red-hot joy blaring on his face. The full grin. The crinkled eyes. Were the performance not in progress, he’d throw his head back and let out all the laughter in his body. 

Procol Harum plays on. A rhythmic, odd gash of sounds. The room stinks of sweat and cigarettes. For so posh a speakeasy, it’s so much like The Cavern. It’s got that same thrill to it. Odd now, to be the spectator. 

“I dig them,” says John against his ear. And John’s got that nice chuckle in his voice. 

“They’re good, yeah. They’re good,” returns Paul. 

John’s head is still on Paul’s shoulder. 

“I’m watching them--” begins Paul. 

“Oh-ho, you’re watching them? Really? At their show?”

“Hush up. I’m watching them, and they don’t have that same sort of… thing that we’ve got.”

“I still quite like them.”

“But do you see what I’m saying?”

The Cavern. The Kaiserkeller. Shea Stadium. Candlestick Park. Their live shows were often rubbish — the first ones too hopped up on prellies or far too drunk to be worth much, the others so blown out by sound that their songs were unrecognizable. 

But on the stage, he could always find John. And somewhere in it all, there would be that buzz. That kick. The soaring where his lungs sat in his ribcage. The big grin on John’s face; his legs kicking against piano keys. Laughing against the hot air. The jumble of words he spit out to make Paul laugh. Sweat shared at a standing microphone; Paul’d catch the glimmer of the stage lights in John’s eyes. _Look at us, we made it. You and I, ya git._

“I see it, love,” says John. “There’s not many like us.”

Show over, Paul loads John into the passenger side of the car. He’s ranting, “Brilliant! Brilliant!” as Paul settles him in. Leans over to pull the seat belt over his shoulder and lap. 

George crosses his arms and scrapes the toe of his shoe against a stone. “Good luck with that.”

“He’s just a bit drunk.”

“Well.”

“I’ll still get some licks of music from him. Eh, Johnny boy?”

“You’re not taking him home to Cyn?”

It’s not even worth mentioning that John hasn’t been home in weeks. 

“No,” says Paul, letting his voice glide. “If I can’t get his drunk arse to rework songs tonight, then I’ll do it in the morning.”

They don’t make it past the doorway to the bedroom. John’s a heavy weight against him, laughing, cooing, “Paulie, love, darling, Macca,” anything past his lips is sweet as sugar. When John pulls him to the ground it’s more laughter, then a switch to, “Fuck, Christ, git, tosser,” all said with a smile and the dearest of teasings. 

“We might as well sleep on the floor,” says Paul after, happy. They’re on their sides, turned toward each other. Watching the expressions on the other’s face. 

Their clothes are around them, tossed here and there within the small space of the hallway. 

“I could,” says John. “I’m tough enough.” 

“Rough enough.” 

“Scruff enough.”

“Stuff enough.” 

“Tr… unff enough.” 

“You lost,” says Paul. “Har, har, you lost.” 

“Ah, fuck yer rhymes!” 

“‘Tr...unff’ you!”

“Paul McCharmly!”

“--Dares use your own words against you.” 

“Ohh, Paul McCharmly! You swarmly boy.” 

Paul laughs. His head is fuzzy; his face is tingling. Lying naked on a floor. Drunk and cackling. Riding down from the post-high and delirious-after of ejaculation. 

“You happy there, son?” smiles John. “Old Johnny did well for himself, eh? Been around the town. Told some fine rhymes, smoked some nice… tyme.”

“Almost took it from behind.” 

“Ah,” laughs John. “Haven’t totally fagged me up yet, now.” 

Paul grins. There’s a knot in his stomach, but it's one he’s glad to ignore.

“And now to bed John,” he says, all doe-eyed and lovely. They’re nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye. 

“And now,” sighs John happily, pushing himself off the floor, “To bed Paul.”

_26 May 1967_

Seven in the morning, and Paul is awake; his eyes blurry with sleep, his sight awash with the timid sun poking in through the shutters. His first thought is toward anything heavy with caffeine. Next thought: the temptation of hot smoke rolling off a joint in the cold morning. 

There’s tangle of auburn hair in his vision. When John sleeps, he sleeps curled on his side; half his face hidden in a pillow. Mouth always a bit ajar. The light-blue color of morning against his pale lashes and the curve of his cheek. He looks so much older, but still so familiar. This isn’t so different, this — not so different from the early mornings of their youth, crammed in together on tiny strips of bedding. 

It’s nice, really. Always has been, in its odd ways. 

When the phone rings, Paul scrambles. He’s half-awake, half-daydreaming as he juts his arm toward the bedside table. Only one empty glass manages to tip. John mumbles a curse and readjusts on the bed. 

"Yeah?" mutters Paul against the receiver. His voice is clearly sleep-worn. The other end fizzles, the far, far background noise of a television coming through — American accents.

Finally, a clear voice: "Paul?"

Jane. 

Paul blinks. He sits more upright in the bed. Were they supposed to talk this morning? He couldn’t remember. Last week, he had forgotten their scheduled phone call too. Fuck. 

"Yes, my dear," says Paul. And then adds with a tune: "I’m here." 

It’s been odd without Jane in England. A bit freeing, if Paul’s honest. By being in America, she's no specter anymore, standing with her arms crossed in the doorway, her nose all scrunched up at the scent of weed. There are somethings she just doesn’t get. The friends who come in and go out at all hours of the day and night. The girls Paul brings in (well, that, she’ll never understand, and hopefully never know). John, she never really seemed to understand or be enthralled with. LSD… would she ever _get_ LSD? _Get_ this whole thing that’s going on? 

But, of course, there were things Paul couldn’t get about her. He had been on his knees, screaming at her, just a few days before she left to go on tour. Ridiculous, sure. But, well. As it goes. 

"Can you believe," she says. “How soon it is until I’m home?

“You mind acid in your tea?”

“It’s barely noon, dear,” chides Paul as he pours hot water from the kettle. 

"Ah," groans John. "As you say, mother. But later on tonight…" 

It’s tempting. Paul notices more and more the things he must have — subconsciously — known. The golden undertone of John’s skin. How his hair shines almost like Julia’s in the sun. His snagged tooth. His hands: their outline, the veins creeping down toward his fingers, how pretty and gentle they are. 

"Yeah," says Paul, because to be back there again, back to a singular entity with John Lennon in an LSD haze, feels right. "If it’s not too late. Yeah. Sure." 

John throws together breakfast (cornflakes bobbing in milk). Tea brewing, Paul rolls the joint. His fingers all sticky and sweet-smelling. 

"Are you shaving?" asks John over his shoulder. The cling-cling-cling of cereal in a glass bowl following. 

Paul rubs his hand across his jawline. "Been a bit lazy," he notes. "But, yeah, on the sides and chin. Not my mustache." 

"‘Cause of the scar," muses John. 

"Cause of the scar."

Milk. Spoons. John delivers his feast to the table, setting a bowl in front of them both. "It’s not so bad. Just be glad your spill didn’t do worse. To think, all for looking up at the moon. Bah, you romantic. That’s why that brought you trouble, it did."

"Eh," shrugs Paul. "I’m starting to like it now, you know? My mustache, I mean. Gives me that look of…"

"A centenarian." 

"Sod off! You’re one to speak, Lennon. Sir ‘I don’t wear me glasses nowhere.'" Paul takes a long tug on his joint. Passes it to John, and says in his exhale, "Here you are now, for the world to see. Round, coke-bottle granny glasses. Gorgeous." 

"We’re just a couple’a old men." 

"Nagging over breakfast. A couple of old queers more like it. Oh, oh, who is this?" Paul laughs. He reaches under the table. "Good morning, there Martha." 

John’s got that softness in his face again. That little tug of a smile that softens every feature he has. He breathes out smoke and hums. Contentedly. "When’s Jane back?"

"Tuesday," says Paul. He doesn’t like how his own voice drops in mood. Isn’t even sure what it means, really. 

"Tuesday," muses John. He takes another hit. His expression drops. "Two days." Sighs. "I wonder if Cyn will take me back." 

"She’s called here everyday for you. I’m sure she will." 

"Do I want to go back?"

"Christ, I hope so." 

That gets a chuckle out of John. "No, I don’t. Been nice here, Paulie. I’ll move in." 

"Ask Jane," smirks Paul. Martha’s front paws are on his lap; attempting to get the last two up as well. "I’m fine with it." 

"And which bed’ll I be sleeping in?"

It’s questions like these that break the fine glass world they’ve created. That small hint of oncoming conflict and inviting in reality that sends Paul’s heart racing. Especially as John, despite all his utter tosh, does carry out on a few things.

Paul watches him. John's expression is squared; lips a thin line. 

He’s serious. 

Paul licks his bottom lip. "I’ll wedge in the middle." It’s a joke. Obviously so, but he’s hoping damn well that John will take the bait and laugh it all off. 

And it’s enough of a give, maybe for now at least. "Your skinny arse could fit," says John. He swaps the joint for a bite of cereal. Paul lets out a sigh. Strokes Martha near her ears.

"Wanna take her for a walk?"

The change is subtle. Whatever it is. Whatever they’re doing. It’s all familiar. 

There’s a part of Paul wanting to tell John it’s like breathing. Unnoticeable until something is distinctly mentioned. “Can you you feel yourself breathing?” _Well, now I can._

But it’s a vulnerable -- and, honestly, _trite_ \-- sort of comparison. And, despite Paul’s career in writing those vulnerable, trite sort of lyrics, it feels a bit too on the nose. 

John gets it anyway, he guesses. 

It’s early in the morning. Still cold, still foggy. The trees are all green. The gardens still wet with dew. Martha darts out from between them. She knows the walk by heart; the neighborhood is all too familiar. 

“She’s gonna miss me,” says John. 

Paul smiles around his cigarette. 

There’s a thought in his head that he contemplates saying-- _Not just her_ \-- but swallows it down. 

John must get it. It doesn’t need to be spoken. 

_28 May 1967_

He lays in bed with Jane.

And sometime in the late night, in the darkness of the room, as he listens to the soft hum of her breathing:

He misses John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who reads, who comments, who kudos, who bookmarks: thank you! It means a great deal to me and comments especially give me the kick to keep on going. Hope you still enjoy and see you next chapter!


	4. A Memory: 1960/61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***A note before we begin: there are a few historical intricacies in this one. I've added an explanation of the various, real events at the end of the chapter.
> 
> "[...] Paul would always give in to his dad. His dad told him to get a job, he fucking dropped the group and started working on the fucking lorries, saying, “I need a steady career.” We couldn’t believe it. So I said to him—my Aunt Mimi reminded me of this the other night—he rang up and said he’d got this job and couldn’t come to the group. So I told him on the phone, “Either come or you’re out.” So he had to make a decision between me and his dad then, and in the end he chose me. But it was a long trip." - John Lennon

_Hamburg_

John’s a fucking mess. Blood-shot eyes. Fly-away hair coming free of its pomade. Scuffed up, roughed up. Dry mouth. Bruised. A hickie near his jawline from some prostitute. He’s on some sort of upper; the shaking in his shoulders can attest to that, at least.

“The fuck you mean you were in jail?” 

“We were in fucking jail, Johnny,” gasps Paul, and he knows he must look the same as John, if not worse. “Lit a condom on fire--” 

Pete’s in the corner, all pale and scrambling. Shoving sheets aside on his bunk. Throwing off his shoes to the wayside. 

“A fucking nazi camp!” says John, and his voice is high-pitched enough to sound like a laugh. Despite his sharp teeth showing in a snarl, there’s a gleam in his eyes. “For lighting a condom! Fucking Paul McCartney!” 

“Paul,” comes Pete’s interjection. 

“They thought,” continues Paul, ”They thought we were trying to burn down the building.” He’s delirious, almost, from the stupidity of it all. He’s burnt down to the wick from lack of sleep and nerves. 

“That fucking place!” howls John. 

“Paul,” Pete tries again. 

Paul had slept with his back against concrete. Had tucked his head between his bent knees and smelled the stale beer that had stained his trousers. Had wondered if his denied call to the British consulate should have been to John Lennon instead. 

“Some big Hans try and get you, son? In the ‘clink?’”

“No sir, no Johnny, no sir!”

“Well, won’t old Jim McCartney be damn proud--”

“Paul,” and that push from Pete’s voice is enough this time. He’s all ragged in his tone; at the very end of his patience. There’s finally silence enough for him to say, “They’ll deport us, you know.” 

Paul shifts on his feet. It’s early, still. They’re barely less than an hour from the holding cell’s memory. He can’t imagine anything worse than that. 

“Yeah, well,” begins John. He’s still only half-dressed himself and still stinking of last night’s package of cigarettes. “Better not be.” 

Paul licks his chapped lips. There’s an obvious silence now flitting about the room. The blaring from the movie theater (their bleak excuse of ‘home’ in Germany), now just white noise in the distance. George, having been deported days ago, had left an obvious absence. And Stu, too, being consistently occupied with Astrid (Paul didn’t mind; John seemed to). Everyone quickly being chipped away. 

And now, if Paul himself and Pete…?

“Shouldn’t be a worry,” says Paul, mostly for John’s sake. “They roughed us up and guilted us up enough now, right?”

Pete says nothing, and John’s gone quiet. 

  


He gets sleep. Three hours worth. He’s learned to tune out the shrill beat of the movies; learned to enjoy the pacing John makes across the floor. Learned to ignore the rise and fall of Pete’s snoring. 

The knocking, though, wakes him. Two plain-clothes policemen at the door. “ _Five minutes_ ” is all they’re given. Everything into knapsacks and a suitcase. “We got enough money to get home?” being Paul’s mantra of a question. John’s biting his nails, and Paul’s too much like a tired, old, deflated balloon to remember much of anything except rush, rush, rush. John shoves a few pills into Pete’s hands, followed with a glass of water Pete shares with Paul as they put the pseudo-adrenaline down into their stomachs. 

“I feel half like dying,” moans Paul.

“We’re fucked,” says John. “Right fucked.” He rubs his hands across his face. “Until Liverpool, then.” 

“‘Til then. Fuck.”

“A ‘hello’ to Geo.”

“Right. You coming soon then, too, John?”

“Paul--” Pete again, interjecting. _Fucking Pete_. 

“I don’t know. Yeah. Should be.” John’s eyes are bouncing behind his thick glasses, looking from Paul’s face, to the door, to the suitcase in Paul’s hands, to Pete, to the, to the, to the… “I’ll tell you. I’ll ring you up when I’m back.”

“Alright,” nods Paul. 

“Alright,” sighs John. 

“Paul,” says Pete. “Paul, come on.”   
  


_Liverpool_

There’s no word from John. It’s almost half a month by the time word comes he’s in Liverpool again, and it takes that same day for Paul to bang against Mimi’s door. 

There’s a troublesome anxiety nagging about in his stomach, making his heart thud within his chest as he knocks. It’s enough to make his fists sounds loud and angry. Banging like the German police had done. 

It takes two sets of knocking. Two sets of three loud bangs for John the crack the door open and squint into the daylight. 

It’s been weeks since Paul’s had Phenmetrazine, but at the sight of John’s face, that dopamine rush (how it starts at the base of the spine and shoots to the skull like a peppery jolt) kicks up in all its familiarity. Every damn nerve in his body is firing. 

And through the fuzz of energy and — what? Brief annoyance? — Paul says, “Well, here you are then. Thought I’d hear from you.” 

John blinks. “You must have if you’re here.” 

“Heard it from George.” 

“Ah. His mouth travels faster than mine.”

“Come off it. You’re back.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You were gon’ tell us, or no?”

“Yeah, I’d tell ya.” 

“So?”

John shrugs. “I’m back, Paul.” 

Whatever kept John occupied between Hamburg and now, Paul doesn’t bother asking. In the cold span of time between deportation and Mimi’s front door, Paul had made a few paychecks, driven about in some lorries, and well fancied himself something of a real Liverpudlian fellow, always with the day’s newspaper under his arm before work and all. 

It was good, at least, to think he kept himself busy if John had selfishly done the same. And, really, it feels quite fine when — just hours later, two pints deep and “ _Blue Hawaii”_ crooning lazily on a turntable — when John takes a good look at Paul and gawks:

“The fuck you mean you’ve got work?”

“I’ve got work,” Paul shrugs. And it feels very, very good to say that. Damn well proud of himself for getting a rise out of John. “I’m at Massey and Coginns, you know, winding copper. Being like an electrician. And it’s early, right? Real early I work, so,” another shrug, “I can’t stay long.”

“Our band is your work.”

“Well, I thought it was your’s too, John.”

John’s clever enough, Paul’s certain, to catch the ice in Paul’s words, but he ignores it all the same. “So. You quitting the band?”

“No, just making a bit extra. What was I gonna do? Sit around and wait?”

“This an old man McCartney idea? Getting you a ‘real job’ and all that?”

Ah-ha. Caught. 

Paul presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Yeah, well, it was a good suggestion. Not my intention at first, but… I’m doing well at it. Might, uh, find myself at the top of the place, you know?”

“And that makes old Jim proud? His son some foreman of the electric units and… what?”

“Copper coils.”

“Hah! Copper coils. Real academic here.”

Paul sighs. He slinks further into the kitchen chair. Above them, Mimi’s footsteps creak along the upstairs bedroom. It’s grey on the other side of the kitchen window. A regular muddy, nasty December day. 

“I’m not quitting the band, though,” offers Paul after a beat. His voice feels quieter than it was before. 

John sits across the table. Arms crossed against his chest. Legs up and stretched across the lateral edge of the kitchen table. He snorts. 

“How’re you gonna work and perform?”

“Well, I’m not working nights.”

“And write music?”

And on that, Paul hesitates. 

January. And it’s so bloody early in the morning and so bloody cold that Paul’s skin feels like it’s been rolled in needles when he shoves over the covers. He jerks on the lamp and shivers. 

It’s too early for the sun to rise. There’s no sweet birdsong to drift in from the trees. Just the cold and the exhaustion and the dread of another long day. He’s no good at being quick. The boiler suit, folded and ready for him in his closet, snag around his ankles. His hair in the mirror won’t seem to stay put. The circles beneath his eyes are damn stubborn. 

And somewhere in the middle of this — between the temperature and the frustration and the general monotony of morning — came a hard rattle against the window. Shrill and sparking on the glass. 

Paul barely manages a gasp of “ _Christ_!” before it comes a second time. 

And it’s district, the second time hearing it. It’s obvious; stupidly so. 

It’s a goddamn stone against his window. 

“ _Fucking--_ ” starts Paul, and he curses further against the cold as he works the window open. Head and shoulders leaning past the banister, he hisses into the dark: “John! John, you nasty git!”

As it is, despite the dark leather clothing, John’s an obvious figure in the garden. Sloppy on his feet, his figure sways as he ambles close and up the house’s walls to crawl in through the window. In with the cold, he ushers in the stink of beer and cigarettes.

“You’ll wake me dad up with that smell.” 

John ignores him. Instead, his first words are: “The fuck are you wearing?”

Pauls straightens. He tugs on his blue jumpsuit. “My work clothes.” 

“Your work clothes,” John sneers and sits on the bed with a heavy _‘thunk_.’ “And where were you tonight?”

Dread lurches in Paul’s stomach. “Sleeping,” he says. “You know I couldn’t come.” 

“The show was shit, Paul. Right shit. Makes sense, when we’re missing another damn instrument. That feel good to you?”

Fuck. Paul knows exactly where this sort of talk will head -- a good row for at least an hour, making Paul at least a good 30 minutes late. 

“I’m not gonna fight now, alright? I’ll be glad to do it later, but not now.” 

“Tell your dad to fuck off,” John cuts in. “You don’t fucking need this job.” 

“It’s steady--” 

“Who gives a fuck! You like that more than--”

“ _Shh_. John--” 

“No, it’s fine. Let’s wake the old man up.” 

“John.” 

Paul grips his shoulders and gives him a small shake. “Listen,” he says in a firm whisper. “I’m sorry, right? I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m fucking tired. Today, just today, is when I have to be there early cause I’m so behind. I just needed a single easy night. Just one. Can you give me that?”

John’s staring up at him, his eyes looking darker in the dull lamp light. “I don’t want you to quit the band,” he says.

“I don’t want to either, Johnny.” 

“Keep going this way and you will.” 

“That a threat, son?” Paul winks, pulling back his hands. “I won’t. This is first. Our thing will always be first.” 

“We haven’t written together in a while.” 

And that knocks the wind out of Paul. He can feel it -- the leather-bound notebook rotting away in his untouched bag. _Lennon-McCartney Original_ written on every penned page. How long had it been since he snapped it open beside John? 

He swallows. “Yeah,” and adds in a small voice, “We haven’t.” 

“I’ve got a song.” 

Something peaks in Paul; a good rush of excitement and familiarity. He could ditch work. Maybe claim to have been ill—

But of course his father would wake to the music immediately. At five in the early morning, nonetheless. 

“I can hear it later, Johnny. I’ve gotta go.”

“Come on here now, sit down, love. Work don’t start now, does it? Not the soulless sort of work anyway.”

“Let’s go downstairs.” 

It’s the best excuse Paul can manipulate, and it’s enough. John follows him through the bedroom door and to the edge of the stairs where Paul gives him a yank on his arm before either can step forward.

“Wait, wait,” he whispers. “It’s too loud otherwise.” And, still holding John’s arm tightly, he maneuvers them both to step down each step simultaneously. 

Cue John’s dramatic eye roll: “Fucking ridiculous.” 

Only in the kitchen does Paul break away from john to hit the lights. He busies himself with his usual preparations: quickly readying breakfast and throwing together an easy and simple lunch. 

With Paul’s attention on a half-finished sandwich on the counter, John saddles up behind him, pressing his chest against Paul’s back and pinning him there. 

“C’mere,” chides John in his most lady-like pitch of voice. He reaches both arms around Paul to take the knife and bread roll from his hands. “Let the little wife make the working man’s butties.” And then adds, in his deep regular tone: “What’d you want in them?”

Paul’s all smiles. “Jam, dear,” he says, sliding away to prepare a strong pot of coffee. “A cup for you, darling?”

“With milk and sugar, sweetheart.” 

“And some burnt toast for the lovely lady’s brekkie?”

“Oh, how you spoil me, my love.” 

Within fifteen minutes, they’re up and out, down the road with bread and caffeine in their stomachs. Once they’ve reached the end of the lane, Paul asks, rather excitedly: “So. Your song.” 

“Our song,” corrects John. “I haven’t got me ‘gee-tar,’ so slap me a blues-beat on those legs, son.” 

Paul complies, handing his bag to John, and slapping his open palms against his hips as he walks. 

“ _Oh, Paulie, Paulie_ ,” sings John. “ _Oh, Paulie, Paulie.._.” 

And it’s recognizable immediately, the song. An old one Paul had written; verses tacked on together and ad libbed as they had sung it together, all the way back last summer. 

“ _Well, Paulie Paulie Paulie, when I’m calling you. Well, I don’t know what I’m gonna tell the fellas… Please, Paulie, please, Paulie._ ” 

“ _Well, I’ll tell the fellas that I’d follow you,_ ” Paul sings in, taking over the verse that had been John’s a year ago. “ _Oh, if you go… I shouldn’t be back, be back--_ ”

“ _I don’t know what you’re gonna do when I tell your father you love me--_ ”

Paul laughs. Sings out, “ _I love you, John--_ ”

“ _Oh, Paulie, Paulie--"_

“ _Oh, Johnny, Johnny--_ ”

They sing, shoulder to shoulder, until the bus arrives.   


His father had meticulously hung the white bedsheets in the garden -- spaced them out evenly on the wire; clipped them precisely at their edges. The wind gave them that ghostly feel; sent them dancing upwards and back in the cold February sunlight. 

Phone pressed to his ear, Paul watches them sway from the window. 

His heart is in his throat. 

“Paul,” snaps John on the other end of the line. “Either fucking turn up today or you’re not in the band anymore.” 

There are a few things Paul wants: a cigarette between his teeth; his poor, old dad to be happy for once; John Lennon in his sitting room again, guitar in his lap, leaning his head onto Paul’s shoulder as he watches Paul write out a line. 

His boss, Jim Gilvey, must hate him. Paul’s no good as a worker and a moonlighting musician. It’s only women he’s good at juggling; an attempt to sneak away at lunch for a gig had cost him three hours of work. 

“You can’t be doing this,” Jim had said, wagging his finger when Paul had finally returned, sweat-stained and blister-fingered. “Don’t be playing games, and don’t expect to be working here if you do.” 

But his dad (peacefully unaware of Paul’s random absences -- and blissfully oblivious to the fact that Paul’s jumper had been ripped while scrambling over a high wall in his Tuesday afternoon escape) had been proud. Had held Paul’s wages in his right hand and smiled. “Hard work,” he had said, nodding. “Pays off.” 

And maybe that life would be good -- being admirable at a job. Keeping a lonely father happy. Maybe marrying, having a kid, reading the newspaper on the bus each morning. Kicking a football with teammates at the lunches; adding less and less sugar to his tea on each break. With good wages, he could travel a bit. Get a nice car. Stop sleeping in dingy, German buildings, or wasting long hours playing in stinking Liverpudlian clubs. Stop washing away his youth with pills and beer and and whatever else his dumb hands came cross. No more club fights. No more broken fingers or bruised ribs.No more deportations or two hours of sleep or arrests or--

But, there’d be no more John. 

He doesn’t pack his lunch. He doesn’t ready breakfast. He doesn’t throw on his work clothes or fuss about bus times. 

He heads toward The Cavern.

He heads toward John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> \- In November of 1960, Paul McCarntey and Pete Best were arrested and deported from Germany after setting a condom on fire. https://www.beatlesbible.com/1960/11/29/paul-mccartney-pete-best-arrested-hamburg/
> 
> \- Paul's short-stint as a working man has been beautifully written about here (it's almost wonderfully hilarious and worth the read): https://amoralto.tumblr.com/post/78763471490/john-paul-and-jim-mccartney-and-in-the-end-he
> 
> \- The lyrics sung in this chapter come from the song "I Don't Know (Johnny Johnny)," written and recorded by John and Paul sometime in 1960. Recordings of it are easily available online, but the quality is lacking, forcing many to make a "guesstimate" of the words. Take a listen to it, learn more about it, and make your own assumptions here: https://www.lennonmccartney.net/2019/09/26/i-dont-know-johnny-johnny-the-forgotten-song/
> 
> \-------------
> 
> Listen, I get tears in my eyes when I read the kindness in the comments; despite the ages it's been since I've updated, thank you all for sticking around, and for the kind words that make writing worth it. Really, truly, thank you. I won't be giving up on this and I'll see you next chapter.


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